The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection. Raymond E. Feist

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       • CHAPTER SEVEN •

       Captive

      BORRIC AWOKE.

      He lay motionless, straining to hear through the confusion of voices and sounds that were ever-present in the camp, even at night. For an instant, while still half-dozing, he had thought he heard his name being faintly called.

      Sitting up, he blinked as he looked around. Most of the captives still sat huddled near the campfire, as if its light and warmth would somehow banish the cold fear in their souls. He had chosen to lay as far from the stench of the waste trench as possible, on the opposite side of the band of slaves. As Borric moved, he was again reacquainted with the manacles that bound his wrists, the odd-looking flat silver metal with the reputed property of blanking out all magic powers of whoever was forced to wear them. Borric shivered, and realized the desert night was indeed turning cold. His robe had been taken from him and his shirt as well, leaving him with only a pair of trousers to wear. He moved toward the campfire, eliciting an occasional curse or complaint as he forced his way between captives reluctant to move. But as all the fight was gone from them, his inconsiderate shoving through the mass of slaves got him nothing more than a glare of anger or a muttered oath.

      Borric sat down between two other men, who attempted to ignore his intrusion. Each lived moment to moment in his own world of misery.

      A scream cut through the night as one of the five women captives was again assaulted by the guards. Earlier a sixth woman had struggled too much, biting out the neck artery of the guard who was raping her, earning both of them death, his the swifter and less painful.

      From the sound of the pitiful wail that trailed on after the scream, Borric considered her the lucky one. He doubted any of the women would be alive by the time they reached Durbin. By turning them over to the guards, the slaver avoided problems for many days to come. Should any survive the trip, she would be sold cheaply as a kitchen drudge. None was young enough nor attractive enough that it was worth the slave master’s trouble to keep them out of the guards’ reach.

      As if summoned by Borric’s thoughts of him, the slaver appeared at the edge of the campfire. He stood there in the golden red glow of the firelight and made his tally. Pleased by what he saw, he turned toward his own tent. Kasim. That’s what Borric had heard him called. He had marked him well, for someday the Prince was certain he would kill Kasim.

      As he moved away from the closely guarded slaves, another man called his name and approached. The man’s name was Salaya, and he wore the purple robe Borric had won two nights before in Stardock. When Borric had first come to camp in the dawn hours that morning, the man had demanded the robe at once and had beaten the Prince when he appeared slow to remove it. The fact Borric was wearing manacles at the time seemed to make no difference. After the Prince had been struck repeatedly, Kasim had intervened, pointing out the obvious. Salaya was hardly mollified as Borric had one wrist, then the other, freed while he removed the robe. He seemed to blame Borric for that embarrassment before the others his own impatience had caused, as if it had been the Prince’s fault somehow that Salaya was a stupid pig. Borric had marked him for death as well. Kasim gave some instructions to Salaya, who seemed to listen with a surly half-attention. Then the slaver was gone, heading off toward the string of horses. Most likely, thought Borric, he’s off to supervise another band of slaves being brought to the impromptu caravansary.

      Several times during the day, he had considered revealing his identity, but caution always overruled him. There was a good chance he would not be believed. He never wore his signet, always finding it inconvenient when riding, fighting, or doing any of the camp chores common to his life on the frontier while serving at Highcastle. He had got out of the habit of wearing it, so it was locked away in his baggage, among those packs the bandits did not conspire to capture. While red hair might make them pause to consider the probability of his claim, it was in no way unique among those who lived in Krondor. Blond hair might be the norm for fair-skinned people living in Yabon and along the Far Coast, but Krondorians numbered as many redheads as blonds among their citizenry. And proving he was not a magician would take some doing, for what difference was there between someone who doesn’t know any magic and someone who knows magic but pretends he doesn’t.

      Borric was decided. He would wait until he reached Durbin then seek to find someone a little more likely to understand his circumstance. He really doubted Kasim or any of his men – especially if they all were as bright as Salaya – would either understand or believe him. But someone with the intelligence to be the master of such as these might. And if so, Borric could most likely ransom himself to freedom.

      Taking what comfort he could from thoughts like these, Borric pushed a half-dozing captive, moving him a few inches, so Borric might lie down again. The blows to the head had made him very groggy and sleep beckoned often. He closed his eyes, and for a moment the sensation of the ground spinning beneath made him nauseous. Then it passed. Soon a fitful sleep descended.

      The sun burned like the angry presence of Prandur, the Fire God, himself. As if hanging only a few yards above him, the sun beat down on Borric’s fair skin, searing it. While Borric’s hands and face had been lightly tanned when serving at the northern borders, the scorching desert sun burned him to weakness. Blisters had erupted along Borric’s back the second day, and his head swam from the pain of his burn. The first two days had been bad enough, as the caravan had moved from the rocky plateau country down into the sandy wastes the local desert men called the ergs of the Jal-Pur. The five wagons moved slowly over what was less dirt than hard-packed sand baked to brick finish by the same sun that was slowly killing the slaves.

      Three had died yesterday. Salaya had little use for weaklings; only healthy, strong workers were wanted СКАЧАТЬ